On the Edge of Death
by ChildOfTheMoon86
Summary: As England lies bedridden at the height of the Blitz, he reflects on death, and what it means for nations like him. But not everyone is so willing to let him go just yet, for even hero's are afraid of something. One-shot.


London, 1941

He's dying.

It's a thought that permeates his skull and rumbles through his bones with a certainty he's long gotten used to. Or so he thought.

Death is hardly a stranger to nations, and England is no different. He's felt the pain of dying more times than he cares to remember. _Can_ remember. No two deaths are ever the same, and some stick in his mind more than others. Falling to a sword in fields and castles, execution by hanging, flames and, more recently, firing squads, and the occasional accident, falling structures, drowning in a sinking ship, even the occasional sickness might claim them. Mortal deaths are as common to them as any other facet of their lives.

But this… _this_ is no mortal death.

He's felt it before of course, you'd be hard pushed to find a nation who hasn't felt _this_ type of death at least once. This _decay_.

Unlike a mortal death, this comes from within, and that's what makes it so much worse. Because it's not just _him_ that's dying, it's his people, and there are no words to describe how much more that pains him. To feel hundreds upon thousands of his people suffering, _dying_ , and to be utterly helpless to prevent it.

These kinds of deaths are, thankfully, much rarer, but there's always a trade off. And the price for rarity is pain. Understandable really, since these deaths usually only come with diseases. Not like a bad flu or an infected wound, but with epidemics that seep across their lands, mercilessly claiming the lives of the young and old.

The first time England experience such a death, he feared it to be the end for him. Though still a young child at the time, and his memory blurry at best, the one thing that stuck with him was the pain. Many plagues came and went, some only bringing him to the edge of death, while others, like the Black Death or later, the Sweating Sickness, claimed him multiple times until it finally left his lands for good.

He knows these pains well, but this… this isn't like that. This is something new, and that's what truly terrifies him.

But it also holds hints of the old, a strange familiarity to it, and in his bones he knows it rings of the past. Mortal deaths in war are to be expected, as are the spontaneous wounds and pains, echos of their people's suffering on mass mirrored by their bodies. But to die a nation death in war, there is no coming back from that. It was the end for Rome, that great Titan of Europe, who England vowed to surpass so long ago. And now, it seems this will be the end for him to.

He's been brought to the brink before, when cities where sacked and invaders laughed as he lay screaming on the cold ground, and the Great War certainly brought him close.

But he didn't think war could bring him any greater pain than feeling his people choking and dying in muddy trenches filled with toxic gas, or blasted apart by shells, or falling row after row to machine gun fire. But he was wrong.

Rather morbidly, he reflects on man's boundless ability to create ever more deadly weapons with which to destroy each other, and wonders what happened to the days when there was honour in battle. Now, war is so… _impersonal_. Not so long ago, you had to look your enemy in the eye as you took their life, but now a single man can kill hundreds without ever seeing the faces of those they kill.

It's because of this, this distance and power to kill on mass, that he's dying. Been dying for weeks.

With each day that passes, with each new bomb that falls on him, he's brought just that little bit closer to the end.

Bombs, how he hates them. The destruction they cause, and the pain they bring. This strange, mechanical pain, like some sadistic marriage between memories of sacking and plagues, between the short and sharp, and the long and drawn out.

He hates this with every fibre of his being, and before he passes he vows to curse the bones of whatever sadistic bastard created the damned things, even if it's the last thing he does.

He chuckles at the thought, but he barely gets out half a laugh before it turns into a horrible coughing fit that leaves him breathless and tasting blood.

"Here, just take it easy." The soft voice to his bedside soothes, bringing a glass to his lips.

The cool water helps to rid his mouth of the taste, but does little to still the burn in his lungs. And it takes him far too long to identify the figure helping him.

"Matthew?" He finally gets out.

"It's good that your awake." The boy smiles down at him, but England can't help but see the worry shining just behind the surface.

He realises the mistake of his words, calling the lad by name in war time, and quickly corrects, "Canada? What are you doing here?" He was fairly sure the lad was away on a mission.

The worry only grows in those violet eyes as he looks across the room, before returning his soft smile to England.

"You've… been asleep for a while, I… I got back three days ago." He says carefully, _too_ carefully.

"Three days?" England frowns, mulling this information over, "That can't be right…"

"It's okay," Canada's smile is shaky and his words far too soft for England's liking. "You needed the rest."

"Like hell I do." England grumbles.

He might be dying, but that's no excuse to sleep through a war. He tries to sit up, determined to find out just how much he's missed, but a new pair of hands steady him, gently pressing his shoulders to the bed.

"I cannot leave you to sit still for two minutes can I?" An annoyingly familiar voice sighs.

"The hell are you doing in my room Frog?"

Chuckling, France stands back to stare down at England.

"Relax, I'm fully under supervision to be in here, right Mathieu?"

" _Oui_." The boy nods, but still sends an apologetic look to England.

Too tired to argue back, he settles for glaring at the man. He went through hell and high water to drag France's arse out from German control, and this is the thanks he gets for it, disregarding his house rules and sauntering around like he owns the place.

Neither elect to tell England that it was Canada who brought France in to help change his bandages.

"Anyway," Francis waves England's ire off with a flippant hand, "you have a visitor."

"Who?" England asks sceptically, he doesn't think he has the energy to see anyone if it's not important.

Rather than answer him, France annoyingly calls to the room door, "You can come in now."

Slowly the door creaks open and a head of blond hair pokes sheepishly around it.

"Hey England, how you feeling?"

Blinking in surprise, England struggles to lift his heavy head to better see his guest, "America?"

Looking cautiously between France and Canada, the young nation slowly slips into the room. He's being uncharacteristically quiet, and it takes England's sluggish brain a full minute to work out why.

Slumping back in his bed, England sighs heavily, "Stop acting like such a mouse, your hardly going to break me just by being in the same room."

"Uh, right." America nods, coming in more, he hovers by the side of the bed, eyes darting between England, the floor and Canada.

"Here," Canada says as he stands, "Why don't you sit with him while I make some tea?"

"A good idea," France agrees, "I'll also see what I can whip up now that your awake."

The pair depart, leaving America alone in the room with England. He moves to take his twins seat, but he's so antsy he can't sit still.

"Alright, out with it." England huffs, making the younger jump slightly.

"Eh?"

"You have something to say, I can tell."

"Oh, is it that obvious?" America laughs and scratches the back of his head, but it sounds clearly forced. He sighs, "It's just… I'm sorry!"

"What are you on about? You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I know but, well I…" he stumbles over his words, trying to find the right thing to say. "It's just, we didn't exactly end on good terms last time, you know?"

That's an understatement. It's been several months since the pair had last seen each other, during which time more nations have fallen to German occupation, while America was effectively placed under 'house arrest' by his boss. Which raises an interesting question.

"What are you even doing here America? Last I heard you were banned from engaging with the war, what with your oh so important neutrality at stake."

"Are you still angry about that? We've been over this," Alfred sighs, "I wanna help you guys, I do, but my people don't want to get involved with another one of Europe's wars."

"And I told _you_ ," England spits, forcing himself to sit up more, "that when you run out of countries to hide behind, an ocean won't make a blind bit of difference. The Axis won't stop here, they'll come for you, and when they do, you'll be just as alone as the rest of us."

"What do you want me to do?!" America shouts, standing and throwing his arms out, "I can't change my boss's mind. I'm doing everything I can to help, I'm sending you money and supplies, what more do you want from me?"

England opens his mouth to argue back, but no words come as the sound of the air raid sirens suddenly cuts through the room. Anger melts to raw fear as England's eyes snap to the window over Alfred's shoulder.

"Not again." He whispers hauntedly.

Then, his living nightmare returns as distant rumbles ring through the air. Hand flying to his chest, he loses what little balance he had sitting up, and crumples back.

"Oh shit, Arthur!" Alfred cries, forgetting the rule of names as he rushes to the elders side. "Oh crap, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to get angry!"

The distant rumbles repeat, one after another, and with each one England curls in on himself more, his lungs spasming with each hit, leaving him gasping for air tainted with his own blood.

The room door comes flying open and a dishevelled France wearing an apron comes bursting in.

" _Angleterre_!" He cries, rushing to the man's side, "quick, help me lay him on his side."

Not wanting to argue, America hurries to help, rolling Arthur from his back to his right side, easing some of the strain on his lungs. Moving like clockwork, France circles around to kneel by England's face, he stares, searching for Arthur's eyes.

"Arthur, _mon_ _amour_ , look at me. _Look_ at me."

Feeling out of place, Alfred is simply left to holding England's shoulder and steadying him as France runs his fingers through the blonds hair.

It takes some doing, but France finally locks eyes with England.

"I know it hurts, but you'll survive this. You'll _survive_. Your people are stronger than this, _you're_ stronger than this."

Canada then arrives, carrying a tray of fresh bandages and clean water, he quietly moves to set it down on the dresser, before joining France to kneel by England. It's a show of silent support, America realises. While France elects for words of comfort and gentle touches, Canada simply sits, waiting for the pain to pass. With a sudden understanding, America grits his teeth, slamming his eyes shut against the feeling of helplessness rushing through him. Because this is all he can do, all any of them can do for Arthur.

The raid only lasts a few minutes, but each second is torture, for all of them. When the bombs finally stop falling, England is at last able to breathe, though his lungs burn horribly with each pained breath. Brushing blond hair aside, Francis forgoes all pretences and lays a gentle kiss to Arthur's temple.

"Just breathe _mon_ _amour_ , you're alright now."

He's far from alright, and they all know it, but the words bring at least a little comfort, even if it is an illusion. A few minutes after the bombs end, the all clear is given and the sirens stop. The sudden silence is a relief, but now what little energy England had is spent, and without warning he succumbs to unconsciousness again.

France continues his gentle strokes, while Canada stands, moving to collect his supplies again.

"Al, America, help me with him." He frowns at his own slip up, but none of them are really willing to keep up decorum right now.

"Sure."

Gently as they can, the pair undress Arthur of his simple night shirt, now stained with blood, and then move on to unwrap the bandages littering his chest and arms.

"It's not as bad as it looks." Canada tries to reassure at seeing Alfred's wide eyed stare. "His arms are mostly healed, but, his chest isn't healing so well."

"He's not healing at all." France chokes out, still petting Arthur's hair, "He's always been a slow healer, but this… he's not getting better."

"But, he'll be alright, won't he?" America asks, watching as Canada dutifully cleans each new wound, the bowl of water slowly turning red.

France sighs, "I honestly don't know. We've heard almost nothing from the others who have been occupied. And none of them have been bombed like this, for so long." France shakes his head, "And it's not just this, he's still an empire at war. Fighting on so many fronts, it puts a strain on you."

"It's no wonder he spends so much time sleeping." Canada adds, now starting to re-bandage the wounds.

"If we lose this war," Francis whispers, face hidden by his hair, "he won't survive."

A knot of dread twists painfully inside Alfred's chest. He came here to apologise, to set things right after the terrible way they left things last time. But he never thought… he never considered…

Nations die, he knows. As a young colony, England regaled him with tales of empires past, of the Ancient Ones, of Rome, and of his mother before him. The old die and fade to make way for the new.

But…

He can hardly remember a time before he knew England. For as long as he's lived, through all the ups and downs of his relatively short life, Arthur's always been there. A fixed constant in an other wise changing world. The idea of… to lose that, to lose _him?_

He feels his eyes sting.

Where Rome was the epitome of strength to England, Arthur became the same to Alfred. To see the one he always thought to be so strong now hanging on a knifes edge from death…

It scares him.

Scrubbing at his eyes, America suddenly stands.

He's meant to be the hero! And what sort of hero just sits by and lets the ones they care about die? He's going to stop this, even if he has to march into Berlin himself and demand they stop. There's still so much he wants to say, so much more he knows Arthur can teach him, even if he's not his colony anymore.

"Al, where are you going?" Canada asks, blinking up at his twin.

"Just hang in there a little longer Arthur. I'll be back soon." And then, he leaves.

* * *

 **Author's** **notes:** The last prompt of the week and here we are. Woo, I actually finished a whole week of writing and arting!

So this is a kinda heavy fic compared to my usual stuff (squints at **What** **I** **want** , **What** **you** **need** ) mostly anyway. But it _is_ full of my weird headcanons surrounding nation deaths so, there's that!

Now that this week is over, I think it's about time I updated some of my longer fics, they've been left for too long and I feel bad not updating them for so long.

R & R people.

Until next time, stay awesome!


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